March to the Scaffold
by PastaKittyQueen
Summary: Nineteenth century France-inspired songfic about execution. I'm bad at summaries. Read it, it'll be fun. Rated T for death!


**Gather round, dear readers. I present to thee a tale of bloodshed and retribution. I'm executing Ashfur à la France, 1830. Have fun.**

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 _"Asher Brandon," the judge announced. Before him, at the defendant's stand, stood a man. He hung his head pathetically as his name resounded through the courtroom._

 _"Y-Yes, your honor?" he stammered quietly, his dark blue eyes looking pleadingly up at the man before him._

 _"You have been found guilty for the murder of Sera Ferro, and her children Leonard, Jayson, and Holly," he told the younger man. "I hereby sentence you to…_

 **"Public execution."**

* * *

It was a grim day, the one that Asher Brandon was sent to march to the scaffold. His heart raced, so fast he prayed that it would beat out of his chest and kill him right then and there. But he was forced to trudge forth.

Left, right, left, right. A steady beat was kept as behind him, two of the village's men, Clyde and Brett, dragged him to his doom. Despite flanking him, they made no attempt to shield him from the crowds. The entire village had gathered to see this man—this _murderer_ —take his final breaths. They pelted him with what they could—rotten food, garbage, even some stones.

Dread filled Asher. He took a nervous glance around him, seeing all those familiar faces—children he had mentored, friends he thought would stick by his side, even his own family.

Asher's sister, Fern, looked pityingly as her brother was marched towards that death machine. For a brief moment they made eye contact. He even stole a glance down at the small children surrounding their mother. What would she say to them, that their uncle was a murderer? That their own flesh and blood was to be remembered as a monster?

"Just get it over with," he gritted to one of the men flanking him. "Here and now, just kill me."

"I can't do that, Asher," the one to his right—Clyde, the cousin of Sera—muttered almost regretfully. "As much as I'd like to, you deserve this much more."

A stone sailed at the man's head, nailing him right in the temple. This did nothing but rile up the crowds even more, causing cheers as he began to bleed.

Off in the distance, he could make out the faint outline of a band. Nothing too grandiose, just a disorganized cluster of winds, brass, and percussion. So they had come to serenade him one last time? How touching—he could almost muster a smile.

A rustling could be seen from further up. They were getting ready to play. Hopefully they would be able to brighten up this bore of an execution.

The band started playing. It was a bright and upbeat march, energetic enough for one to dance to should they so wish. Why would they play _this_ when he was to die?

And then he saw it. The villagers' faces had brightened up considerably. Their pariah would now be marched along to his death, all to the tune of the band playing along happily. They weren't just going to observe Asher's death—they were going to celebrate it.

"No!" he screamed, digging his heels into the ground. The men tried to force him along, only for him to dig his heels further.

"Enough of this." The man to his left, Brett, socked him in the side of the head, sending Asher stumbling to his knees. The crowded jeered as their entertainment for the afternoon was forced to the ground.

Once more, Clyde and Brett continued to drag Asher, this time up the rotted steps of the village's ancient scaffold. The band to him sounded like the shrieks and chants of Furies, scorching his sins into his mind, cementing them as his final thoughts.

 _"_ _I deserve this,"_ he thought to himself. _"Just hurry up and kill me."_

So close—death was so close to him. By now he didn't even care about getting out of this alive. The quick, painless death of an executioner's blade against his exposed neck would be his only demand.

 _"_ _Asher."_ The heavenly voice floated by his ears. Asher looked up, seeing a fleck of compassion amongst the angry faces.

"S-Sera?" It couldn't be—he'd seen her die. He'd felt her blood on his hands as she took her last breath. But there she was, the woman he'd murdered not long ago, looking up at him through the crowd.

 _"_ _Asher."_ Tears forced themselves from his weary blue eyes. There she was, with her children whom he'd burnt alive.

All of them, there to see him die.

 _Shhk!_ The blade had sliced through Asher's neck, totally clean and with hardly any mess. His head rolled down the steps— _thump, thump, thump_.

The villagers burst out into a joyous cheer, prompting the band to play one last fanfare. A light came down from the heavens, casting a divine spotlight on the headless corpse of Asher Brandon.

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 **Yes, that was 100% based off _March to the Scaffold_ , fourth movement of _Symphonie Fantastique_. Good symphony, go listen to it. If you have any questions about this, feel free to toss me a PM or scrawl out a review down below. Otherwise, have a good one.**

 _ **~ PastaKittyQueen**_


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